Every Five Years
by InterruptingDinosaur
Summary: Christmas has always been a special time for Sherlock and Mycroft. Evil cousins, muggings, girlfriends, Mummy Holmes, and puberty! Oh my! Christmases with the reluctant consulting detective and the voracious occupant of a minor government position.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and story from BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**

* * *

><p>By the December of 1977, Mycroft Holmes had witnessed six Christmases. All of which were spent wearing an ill-fitting tuxedo during Christmas dinner filled with decadent goodies— those of which he couldn't get enough of, or he couldn't until Mummy scolded. But this seventh one was going to be different. That's what his nanny said, and Elise was seldom wrong.<p>

Mummy was pregnant. Mycroft was no idiot. He could see his mother's bulging stomach peeking beneath her elaborate maternity robes. Although, he had no idea that a baby might change the course of his holidays until he saw the squirming bundle in her arms.

At first, Mycroft had stood hesitantly in the doorway of the hospital room. Unsure whether to approach, or to run into the protective arms of Elise. He hadn't been able to see his mother's face as she was turned down towards the baby, but when she looked up to see her first son in the doorway, Mycroft saw that she was smiling.

"Would you like to hold your baby brother, Mycroft?"

Mycroft wasn't sure if he did. The baby seemed so small, so fragile. It didn't seem real, and it certainly didn't seem right for such a delicate thing to be put in his awkward arms. The slightest slip and the baby could fall. A hand nudged him forwards, and he had no choice but to accept the small bundle.

"Say hello to Sherlock."

_Sherlock. My little brother, Sherlock. _

"Hello there," Mycroft whispered.

Sherlock's eyes were closed, but as soon as Mycroft spoke, they opened to observe the world with sharp grey eyes. As soon as they settled on Mycroft, a loud wailing emitted from the baby.

Mycroft panicked. "What do I do? Why is it doing that? What did _I_ do wrong?"

"Darling, hold him closer to you, pat his back. He just feels insecure," were Mummy's soothing words.

So, Mycroft drew the screaming child closer and patted its back. _His_ back. He forgot the baby had a gender. But still, the baby continued screeching, giving the impression that Sherlock had been possessed by an angry demon.

Mycroft returned his little brother to Mummy promptly afterwards.

"I don't like him," was all he said.

A week before Christmas, Mummy returned from the hospital with the baby. Mycroft still didn't like it. He spent nearly all his time pretending that he was still an only child. It was easy because Sherlock was such a colicky baby that he was constantly shut away from sight.

On Christmas day, Mummy thought it was a fabulous idea to let Mycroft spend time with Sherlock. She led Mycroft to the baby room, promising treats afterwards. It wasn't until he heard the click of the door closing that he realized he had been cheated.

Sherlock was awake. He waved his chubby legs in the air and cooed.

Mycroft sighed. He decided it was better to ignore the baby than make it cry again. He strolled over to the window after hearing the start of a car engine. Even before he peered out, he realized it was his father leaving the house. His father's car engine made a lower grumbling sound that his mother's car. Father's absence had become common in the time of Mummy's pregnancy. The sound of the engine was soon drowned out by Sherlock's crying.

"Hush," Mycroft ordered.

Sherlock continued crying.

"Stop crying. I'm supposed to look after you, and I do not tolerate this behaviour."

The crying did not cease.

"Sherlock, I'm your older brother. What I say goes."

No change in Sherlock's pitch, but his volume seemed to rise.

"Oh, bollocks," Mycroft admitted to defeat, and gingerly picked up his baby brother.

He sat down in a rocking chair and the bounced the sobbing baby on his knee.

"What do you want?" Mycroft was growing especially impatient and frustrated.

He noticed a bottle full of milk in the corner of his eye.

"You're hungry, aren't you?" Mycroft grabbed the glass bottle. He blunderingly shoved the teat into Sherlock's little mouth. Silence returned other than the occasional sucking sound made by eager baby Sherlock.

All the while, the baby observed the room with steely grey eyes, hardly blinking. They emitted intelligence and wisdom well beyond his years.

"You're really not so bad are you? Just a bit hungry."

The baby smiled a little, but returned back to his feeding.

Mycroft began to warm up to Sherlock a bit. He even attempted to play by grabbing a few assorted toys from the vast toy chest. All toys were rejected, but one— a rather morbid plushy skull that was more suited for a Halloween decoration than a baby's toy.

By the time Mummy returned, both her boys were asleep in the rocking chair. Mycroft's arms were curled protectively around his little brother as Sherlock snuggled up against his older brother's chest. Both were snoring so peacefully that their mother hadn't the heart to wake them. She settled a blanket over Mycroft, and carefully returned Sherlock to his crib.

If she had known that Sherlock was the best Christmas present Mycroft had ever received, she'd have given him a little brother earlier.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and story from BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**

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><p>Five year old Sherlock did not like people. He did not like dressing up for people. He did not like making general conversation with people. He did not like smiling at people, and he did not like to be shown up by his brother, who was excellent at all of these things. Unfortunately, he was always forced to dress formally, smile, and make small talk at Christmas. It had grown hard, especially since his father had left, and the subject was the nucleus of all conversations among friends and acquaintances. Except, for the Holmes family itself.<p>

Elise forced Sherlock to struggle through it all the same, even when Mummy had avoided the dinner and complained of a headache she did not have.

So, there, Sherlock sat. Smiling his fake smile to relatives, and giving his opinion on the recent weather— which made the adults laugh at his attempts at seriousness. Mycroft served of little use. He sat beside Sherlock, his fork and hands a blur. There was never a moment when his plate was empty except, of course, at the end of the meal when it was scraped clean. Since Father left, Mycroft spent his time split between loitering in the kitchen, and trailing behind Mummy like a faithful pet.

Christmas was a hateful time, but it grew especially hateful when the cousins descended. The cousins who did not fit in the category of refined in the slightest. The cousins who quietly crouched behind the couch to listen to their parents gossip. Oh, yes, they knew about their uncle's infidelity. They also knew how to use it against Sherlock, their little freak of a cousin who had an abnormal mop of dark hair, and strange little eyes. He was the cousin who loudly observed the answer to who had stolen sweets when their parents demanded truth, the one who poked at dead things with interest.

"Hello, 'Lock," Tarquin greeted cheerfully after dinner.

"What do you want, Tarquin?" Sherlock demanded.

"We just want to talk," answered Calliope, Tarquin's other evil half.

"I don't want to talk. I can't be bothered by your jabber," Sherlock tried to push his way through.

"Now, that isn't very cousinly, is it? Come, 'Lock, stay for a chat," Tarquin chided.

"Stop calling me 'Lock. It's Sherlock," Sherlock growled.

"You're a baby. Sherlock is too grown up of a name for a baby," Calliope explained.

"There's nothing to talk about. You know nothing that interests me," Sherlock crossed his arms. He had learned to be cool from Mummy. She had acted in the same angrily calm manner during her fights with Father. What Sherlock didn't know was that this was only how she acted when she knew Sherlock was spying on them.

"Oh, don't we?" Tarquin sang. He smiled a secretive smile.

"We know about your father," Calliope added with a more serious tone.

"What about my father?" Sherlock demanded.

Calliope shared a look of feigned concern with her brother. "Oh, don't you know?"

"Everyone else sure does," Tarquin snickered.

Sherlock's eyes widened, but he crossed his arms. "My father is away on a very important business trip. Whatever else that you've heard about him is untrue."

Tarquin nudged his sister. "I told you he was a baby."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock was very offended. He was proud of the fact that he was mature for his age. Calling him a baby meant his honour had to be defended.

"Your father's not away on a business trip, you dollop head." Calliope's face twisted into a menacing smile.

"Then where could he possibly have gone?" An exasperated Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Your father is cheating on your mother," Tarquin explained in a mockingly slow pace.

Sherlock's arms dropped to his sides. "Cheating? Like, in a game?"

Calliope sneered, "This one's not as bright as he looks."

"He has another family."

"A—another family."

"With another woman. Who is not your mummy."

"Another… another mummy."

Both cousins took pleasure to see the surprise in Sherlock's face. All colour had drained from his small face as everything settled in. It explained why Mummy fought with Father all of the time, why Mycroft ate more than usual, why Father was never home.

"That's right, 'Lock," Tarquin nodded.

Sherlock grabbed the punch glass he had set down beside him and took a hesitant sip.

"Oh, yes, it's been going on for quite a while now. Since you were born, actually. Hmm, it must be your fault," Calliope said happily.

"No, no," Tarquin corrected. "This is no fault of our baby cousin. This is the fault of his fat brother. He's probably eating this family to starvation."

His sister chucked. "No! It's that stupid mother's fault. Maybe if she knew how to keep her husband—"

"Shut up," Sherlock dropped his punch glass onto the floor, "you may not speak about my mummy in that way!"

Spilled punch made its way into Calliope's patent leather shoes.

"You idiot! I love these shoes!" she yelled, but she still found herself squishing damp toes together in her tight shoes.

"Calliope, wait—" Her brother tried to calm her, but it was no use.

"No one loves you, Sherlock. That's why your father left you. You're queer and you're sociopathic. That's what my mummy says about you. Everyone is going to leave you. Your father just got a head start!" Calliope screeched as she stomped her way out of the room.

Sherlock was only five years old and he did not know the definition to words like 'queer' and 'sociopathic'. But he was clever enough to know that they were not politely used. The grown-ups in the room had quit their chatter and were now staring at Sherlock in the corner of the room.

Mycroft was immediately on his feet. "Sherlock—"

But Sherlock didn't stay to fester in a pity party. He did what his five year old instincts thought best. He ran.

—

"There you are, I've been looking all over the place for you."

Mycroft opened the door to his room to find Sherlock curled up in a ball by his bed.

His little brother made no response.

Mycroft softly closed his door. "Everyone's gone."

Sherlock still did not speak.

Mycroft sighed and sat down on his bed to where his little brother was curled. He started stroking Sherlock's soft curls.

"Don't touch me," Sherlock snapped.

His older brother withdrew the hand faster than if it was placed in a tank full of piranhas.

"You know about father," Mycroft stated.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Sherlock demanded. His voice was muffled as he spoke into a pillow.

"What? And let a five year old worry over problems that weren't his?"

"I'm not a baby," Sherlock barked.

"I never said you were," Mycroft carefully placed a hand on Sherlock's back. "I just wanted to make things as easy as I could for you until you really had to deal with the complications."

Sherlock did not tell his brother to move his hand. He waited a long time before he spoke again. "Complications?"

"You know that someone will make us choose between Mummy and Father."

"They will?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

There was another stretch of silence. Mycroft thought it was a sign of Sherlock processing the details that he had learned that evening before he heard sobbing.

"Sherlock?" Sherlock's small body racked with sobs. "Sherlock," Mycroft pulled his little brother's face out of the pillow.

"Let go of me," Sherlock shouted as he flipped back to the pillow.

"How about you get your Christmas present?"

Sherlock ignored Mycroft.

Mycroft walked to his bureau drawer and pulled out a wrapped package.

"Here," he said as he tossed it to Sherlock.

Still crying, but never one for rejecting presents, Sherlock immediately tore into his present.

"What is it?"

"That," Mycroft said, tossing the wrapping paper off of his bed, "is a magnifying glass. And a book about the science of deduction."

"But why?"

"I can't always be around to teach you things. I figured that you're bright enough to learn things on your own."

"Wow!" Sherlock immediately forgot his tears and flipped through his new book.

Mycroft smiled, but his happiness was interrupted when a cold breeze hit him. He looked for the source and he discovered that his window, usually latched for the winter, was open.

He let Sherlock revel in his glee and went to go close the window. Mycroft peered out into the winter night. The moon was out, illuminating the vast snow covered lawn. It had been a few days since the last snow fall, and already, bits of brown appeared on the patch of lawn below Mycroft's window. _Hold on, that isn't lawn._

"Is that—" Mycroft spluttered, "the contents of my suitcase?"

Mycroft turned back to ask Sherlock, who was no longer jumping up and down with excitement. He sat solemnly on his brother's bed, looking so small and miserable. Mycroft walked over and scooped his little brother up on his lap, an act that had not been done since Sherlock was an infant.

Sherlock did not struggle. He just deflated a little bit more in the protective arms of his older brother.

"Why did you do it?" Mycroft asked gently.

Sherlock buried his face into Mycroft's shoulder and muttered a muffled answer.

"What?"

Some more muffled nonsense.

"I can't hear you, Sherlock."

Sherlock lifted his head. "I didn't want you to leave me."

"Why would I ever want to leave you?"

"I looked up 'queer' and 'sociopath' in your dictionary. I'm weird."

Mycroft hugged his brother, "Don't you ever, ever think that I would leave you, Sherlock. You're my brother, and we have to stick by each other."

"Do you promise, Mycroft?"

"I promise, Sherlock."

"Good," Sherlock scrambled off of Mycroft's lap, collected the presents and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Mycroft called.

"I want to read my book," Sherlock announced.

Just before he closed the door, Sherlock added, "and don't open your sock drawer just yet. _Your_ Christmas present still needs a more few days of incubation."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and story from BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**

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><p>At seventeen, Mycroft was his own man. He lived in a dorm at uni, had some very influential friends, and even managed to snag himself a girlfriend— all in his first semester. He thought that sending a postcard to his mummy for Christmas would suffice, but she still demanded his presence. He deduced from her handwriting that she had been under stress. The most likely cause of stress would be his pain of a brother. Previous letters from Mummy were mostly on the subject of how hateful Sherlock was growing of his surrounding world, how obviously hurt he was from the bullying at his grade school, and how he loved to disobey her.<p>

Mycroft had no choice, but to invite his girlfriend along for the holidays. She very readily agreed and even bought presents for his family. Kate was very confident that she would impress the Holmes' like she impressed the university deans. Kate, however, had not yet met Sherlock Holmes.

—

The minute Mycroft's girlfriend stepped onto the Holmes' front lawn, and obnoxiously slammed the car door, Sherlock gained eight different ideas about her.

She was a year older than Mycroft. A law student, judging by the way she held herself. Her build told him that she was into running, but she was rubbish at any other sport. Cheap clothing, and the way she gawked at the house, showed that she was from a middle class family, but, her manicure, and upturned nose said that she had aristocratic tastes. Her bra was slightly visible through the front of her shirt. It was the kind that clasped in the front. The clasp was very visibly worn, either from extensive washing, or from being ripped off multiple times before. Judging by the rest of her clothes, she wouldn't own an article of clothing long enough to be washed as many times that would cause fraying at the clasp. In letters, Mycroft claimed that they'd only be dating for two months. Gentleman Mycroft would never slept a woman in so short a time. She was unfaithful. Another thing, she looked confident. Sherlock smirked. She thought it would be a breeze. He chuckled to himself about the stupidity of Mycroft's new girlfriend before he called Mummy down to dinner.

—

As soon as the appetizer was laid onto the table, Sherlock started his picking.

"You're a law student," Sherlock said as he stirred his soup with a spoon.

"Yes, I am," Kate agreed brightly. "I had no idea that Mycroft told you."

Mycroft gritted his teeth, but said nothing.

"He didn't," Sherlock smirked superiorly.

Mycroft still said nothing, but gave Sherlock a warning glance. Mummy was not there to stop Sherlock because it was the anniversary of the day she found her husband cheating. Mycroft needed deal with this on his own.

Kate looked surprised. "Then how did—"

"Don't ask," Mycroft snapped.

Kate looked even more surprised. "Excuse me?"

"Sorry." Mycroft smiled apologetically. "I meant, Sherlock only saw from—er— your law books on top of your suitcase."

"But, I didn't bring my books."

"Of course you didn't." Sherlock sneered. "I deduced it from the way you conducted yourself. Very posh, like you're in a court room."

Kate was about to say something, but was abruptly interrupted by Mycroft. "Conduct? You're making good use of that dictionary I gave you, aren't you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please, Mycroft, 'conduct' is hardly a complicated word. Do try to remember that I'm not in the single digit age group anymore."

Kate cleared her throat. "So, you're ten years old—"

Sherlock looked very bored all of a sudden. "Very good observation. Which obvious fact will you point out next? Oh, wait until you discover that I'm a male, or that I'm a relation of Mycroft's. Then the fun will begin!"

"You will have to excuse my brother's rudeness," Mycroft said, setting down his napkin.

"It's… fine." Kate forced a smile.

"We're putting him through every test we can obtain to see which psychological disorder he's been making us miserable with for years," Mycroft chuckled to ease the tension.

"Yes, the journey is long and arduous. The quest is quite similar to the search for a diet that Mycroft actually sticks to."

Kate giggled, which only offended Mycroft even further.

Silence settled as the table was cleared to make room for the main course.

"You're a year older than Mycroft."

"Two, actually," Kate says as she dug into her plate.

"Two." Sherlock repeated with furrowed brows. "How could I have gotten that wrong?"

"Well," Kate said after chewing thoughtfully. "I did repeat a year in school. I wanted to go into secretary work before I decided to switch to law."

"And I understand you enjoy running as a hobby?"

"I understand that you enjoy observing people as a hobby," she countered

Sherlock merely shrugged, and poked at his meal suspiciously. He'd found that he had very little appetite for food when figuring out people's lives with one glance was so much more delicious.

"Alright, you already know that I'm a law student, and I enjoy running. What else can you tell by just looking at me?" she challenged. It was the bravest thing she'd said all evening.

Mycroft stopped eating. "Kate, I really don't think that's a good idea."

"No, Mycroft, your little brother has a gift. He should share it," she insisted.

Sherlock looks annoyed. "I'm hardly 'little'. Mycroft has stopped growing vertically, and instead he's rapidly growing horizontally. A pair of pants better be in one of the two— no, three— Christmas presents you're giving him because he gains most of his weight around the holidays. If you want to be correct, use 'younger', not little. Are you sure she passed English?"

"Sherlock, that's incredibly rude. Apologize, now." Mycroft glared.

"Correct grammar never hurt anyone. Now, I believe she's requested that I deduce what I can from her appearance," Sherlock replied haughtily.

"Apologize, Sherlock," Mycroft persisted.

Sherlock started to look even more irritated. "Why should I apologize to an unfaithful woman?"

Kate had looked very amused until Sherlock said unfaithful. Her head immediately snapped up, and her voice grew cold. "What did you call me?"

"Don't try to deny the obvious. I'm surprised that Mycroft didn't see it." Sherlock pointed out his deduction from earlier, the worn state of her bra.

"That could mean anything, Sherlock. She could wash her clothing a lot. Good lord, you got her age wrong. You're not right about everything." Mycroft was near the point where he wasn't afraid to smack his younger brother.

"If I was wrong, why isn't she defending herself? Her face is just getting redder, and redder."

Mycroft looked at his girlfriend properly for the first time in the evening. He looked, really looked, and he saw everything that Sherlock pointed out. He was right, even though Mycroft would never admit it.

Dinner continued in silence. Sherlock didn't understand why. He had saved Mycroft from heartbreak. He should be thanked, praised as a hero. The boy kept looking expectantly at his brother and the girlfriend, now ex-girlfriend, but no thanks was ever given. He sulked into his meal. This was exactly what happened when he tries to help in school by pointing out the tattle-tales and the bed-wetters.

—

The next morning, Kate was gone. She didn't want to face the embarrassment, or wrath, of Mummy Holmes. She left the presents in the living room, not as a token of gratitude for dinner, but because she couldn't carry them with her without a vehicle. She walked four miles to the nearest town before hiring a vehicle to take her back to London.

Mycroft ripped open his presents to reveal a reversible tie, a book on politics— the career track that Mycroft was intent on going in, and a pair of running shoes, all of which were found in the rubbish bin an hour later by a sweeping maid.

Sherlock tore his present open to reveal a junior detective kit equipped with a juvenile hat, a plastic notebook with matching plastic pencils, and a fake pipe. He snorted, and showed Mycroft, who managed a smile even though he was still mad at Sherlock.

Both were disappointed that they were not able to give _their_ presents to Kate. Mycroft sighed in exasperation and slumped onto the couch beside Sherlock. They both unwrapped their unopened gifts and laughed until tears roll down their cheeks. It was only chance that they would happen to pick out the same book for her: _Law for Dummies_. Sherlock had highlighted the word 'dummies'.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and story from BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**

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><p>In the ten years that Sherlock had been in school, and the fifteen years he had been alive, he never made any friends. It wasn't like he didn't try. He was very helpfully told one of his primary school teachers that her husband wasn't really missing at all, but staying at an inn a few miles away. He stated the ingredients of all mystery meats being passed off as lunch. At Mummy's request, he even upped an effort for a girlfriend by asking a girl on a date, but then suggested a time when she ovulated. When all of these attempts to be social failed, he returned to sulking around the grand house. There, he upset maids, performed experiments on dead animals, and sawed at his violin. While Mummy was very lenient with this at first, she began to grow worried for her lonely son. This upset Sherlock even further. So, despite the fact that Christmas was a dreaded holiday for Sherlock, he looked forward to it. Even Mycroft's return.<p>

—

Mycroft knew he was home when he pulled up onto the vast driveway. In his twenty-two years, the Holmes estate never changed in its outer appearance. The only changes that took place were in his family. Since he'd left for university, Mummy had grown more distant from her boys. She was upset that her youngest son had no interest in social interactions and preferred to spend his time in his bedroom-turned-laboratory. She got migraines when she thought of Mycroft going into politics, just like his father. Mycroft still knew that Mummy loved them, but he did not think that Sherlock knew. He decided to make an effort this Christmas to bring out the social butterfly in Sherlock, even though he knew already that he was going to fail.

—

At dinner, the whole table was quiet. Mycroft is instantly realized that Sherlock was not himself. He had gained some weight in his time away, and it should have been the main subject of Sherlock's jabs. Instead, his little brother sat sullenly across the table, staring disgustedly at his meal.

"So, Sherlock, I see that you're remembering an image. You're looking up and at the right," Mycroft stated.

Sherlock simply shrugged.

"You received a bad haircut this year. You're wearing it differently, and over your eyes. A sign of self consciousness," Mycroft continued.

Sherlock didn't answer.

Mycroft furrowed his eyebrows. This was usually all that it took to gain some response from his brother.

"Are you feeling ill this evening, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock shook his head.

"Sherlock is going through a silent phase," Mummy answered.

Mycroft looked confused, but nodded anyways. Sherlock was never silent.

"I do believe it has something to do with another experiment of his. My dear, I hope it's not involving the cook's dog again."

Sherlock shook his head again.

"How long has he been like this?" Mycroft asked, like a concerned doctor.

"A few months."

"Oh," Mycroft said. That was odd. The longest time that he had ever heard silence from Sherlock was two hours. "Is it something in school? Are they being mean to you again?" Mycroft asked.

Again, the boy shook his head.

"Then what is it?" Mycroft demanded.

Sherlock shrugged. This upset both Mummy and Mycroft. Mummy didn't show it, she looked apathetic, but Mycroft had known her long enough to know that she didn't like her son's phases. But at least this phase was better than the one where he liked to perform experiments on live people, Mummy's guests to be more exact. Mycroft was worried about his brother's well-being. Even if Silent Sherlock was an improvement from Rude Sherlock, this was not like his brother at all.

—

Mycroft confronted Sherlock in the his room after dinner.

"Alright, what's wrong?" Mycroft asked after he'd cornered Sherlock.

Sherlock chose not to answer.

"Sherlock, this isn't like you. The only time you don't talk is when you can't. So out with it."

Sherlock glared at his brother. Mycroft sighed, realizing he had to try a different approach.

"Is this just teenage angst?" Mycroft asked. He knew that Sherlock hated to be lumped with his age group. The boy would rather be forty and balding than confused with other zit faced youth.

Mycroft was met with silence.

"You know, you're getting older. You have to choose a university soon. You should consider coming to mine. Maybe the other students could help you develop an interest in politics." It was a joke. Mycroft knew Sherlock despised politics.

"Mummy tells me that you don't have a girlfriend. Maybe it's an older woman you want. That's okay at uni."

Silence, but a pillow flew at Mycroft, which he stealthily dodged.

"They would accept you at uni. Your intelligence would be celebrated instead of feared."

Again, silence, but this time no objects came flying. Sherlock liked getting his ego petted.

"But then again, if you were to start uni now, you wouldn't fit in very well. No, puberty stricken boys would not fit in at all," Mycroft leaned into his brother's face. "My god," he exclaimed, "is that a… _zit_?"

Sherlock immediately sat up. "Where? Another one?"

It was until he saw Mycroft's surprised, and slightly amused, face that he realized his mistake. Sherlock turned a dangerous shade of red when he also realized that his voice cracked during his last statement. He sounded like a cow in pain.

Mycroft laughed until his stomach began to hurt. "Is that why you've stopped talking? Because your voice cracks?"

Sherlock glared at his brother. "Shut up!" His voice cracked again.

Mycroft clucked his tongue. "Puberty has hit you hard."

"Stop saying that word," Sherlock snapped. His voice continued to crack from high to low.

His brother smiled. "Sherlock, everyone goes through pu— this stage. It's natural."

"I know it's natural. I'm not daft," Sherlock hugged his bony knees to his chest. "As if they already don't have enough to tease me with."

"Sherlock, this will pass. You're fifteen, it's not the end of the world."

"Oh, shut up, Mycroft. This only shows how much you know."

"But, I do know. I was once your age too."

"Just shut up."

Mycroft left the room while Sherlock continued sulking in it. Before Sherlock went to sleep that night, he heard the crunching of gravel under car tires. He fell asleep before he can deduce whose car it is.

—

Christmas morning, Sherlock woke up and dashed to the sitting room with lightning speed. He anxiously tore through his presents as if the world was ending. From Mummy, he received lessons on social etiquette and a new tailored suit.

Mycroft peeked into the doorway long enough to see Sherlock open _his_ present. A book on body language (as another form of communication), a silky blue dressing gown, and a jar of zit cream. He felt proud for a minute when Sherlock hugged the dressing gown to his chest, but the feeling did not last when his presents are pushed aside to open the ones from Elise, who— even if she was no longer employed by the Holmes anymore— still remembered to send gifts every Christmas and birthday. Mycroft was carried to the kitchen by the wafting fresh scent of muffins and bread, and thought no more of his gifts to Sherlock, thinking that they never went to use.

The next time Mycroft visited home, he opened the bathroom cabinet to find a half used jar of zit cream. When he entered Sherlock's room while his brother is out, he found the dressing gown hung up on the door, and the pages of the body language book worn and dog-eared.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and story from BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**

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><p>Sherlock Holmes spent his twentieth Christmas in the hospital. Mycroft Holmes spent that same Christmas in the hospital bed across from his brother's.<p>

It had started like any other Christmas. The boys were summoned home by Mummy to spend their holidays with her. Mycroft was willing. Sherlock tried to twist away from his Mummy's tight grasp on his life, but failed and, like always, pouted the whole way home.

They were forced to act cordially in front of their mother, but a silent battle raged on between the brothers. The fault partially fell on Sherlock, for neglecting his studies, and partially on Mycroft, for growing more pompous by the day. But, still, they smiled in front of their Mummy, unwilling to admit their problems because they knew that Mummy would make them work it out.

The war was quiet. Sherlock made occasional cutting remarks at Mycroft's weight and Mycroft insulted Sherlock's intelligence. However, the tense truce was dropped when the last egg in the Holmes kitchen was fried and eaten.

Mycroft was licking the grease from his fingers when Sherlock entered.

"What the hell have you done?" Sherlock demanded angrily.

"Well, I'm not sure what you call it, but I was having a snack," Mycroft patted his bulging belly.

"That was my experiment, you dimwit!"

Mycroft glared. "I thought Mummy told you that you weren't allowed to experiment in the house anymore. If I do recall correctly, you nearly burnt down this kitchen after you tried microwaving glow-sticks."

"It was a matter of science," Sherlock argued, "and this experiment was tame."

"Sherlock, the word "tame" and "experiment" do not mix in your case."

Sherlock growled and opened the fridge. "You idiot! You moron! You— oh, I cannot believe you," Sherlock whined.

"It's called eating, Sherlock. Maybe if you gave it a try your pants would fit better." Mycroft gestured towards Sherlock's belted pants that— even though they were strapped to the first and tightest hole— were sagging off his thin hips.

Sherlock pulled up his pants. "I see you have no problem with that." He gestured at Mycroft's unbuttoned pants.

Mycroft coughed uncomfortably and struggled to zip them back up.

"We're out of eggs, you miserable—"

"Enough with the name calling, Sherlock. You have a vehicle. You have a license. Yet, you find it so easy to forget that you have the ability to drive into town and get more eggs."

"I'll just ask the staff to get me more."

"No, Sherlock. It's Christmas day. That's really not polite."

"Who cares about polite? They're getting paid, aren't they?"

"Sherlock, don't be rude."

Sherlock huffily crossed his arms. "You should pick up the eggs. You ate the last one."

"You keep forgetting that you are as much of a contribution to this household as I am. That means that you eat here too, and you had a part in the egg's uses. I will go, but you must come with me."

"It's not fair," Sherlock groaned.

Mycroft grinned and grabbed his car keys from a hook. "It never is."

—

An hour later, they found themselves in a darkened alleyway in the town closest to the Holmes' household.

"You obviously don't know the way, Sherlock. So stop pretending," Mycroft said with a tired sigh.

"I know every street in London, but we're lost in a place that isn't even a city," Sherlock grumbled.

"Yes, I can see that. Let's just search for people."

"Mycroft, it's nine o'clock on Christmas day. There aren't going to be too many people around."

"Hm, by the state of this building, I'd say that we're by a warehouse. Lumbering, by the looks of it. They usually place lumbering warehouses at the edge of town so as not to disturb peace. We should go east to find the centre of the town. That's usually where stores are located."

"Mycroft."

"Hm?"

"Of all the ideas that you've ever had, this is by far the stupidest. It's Christmas day. No stores are going to be open at this hour!"

"_My _idea? This was your idea. If you hadn't been so damn worried about your silly little experiments, we could be home right now."

"Do not call my experiments silly! It's better than your career. I say career, but I'm really being too kind. What career? It's just a long dinner party to you, isn't it?"

"At least I can classify my job as a career. You're only going to uni to please Mummy. I know you're just beating around the bush with no actual purpose. Do you know how much you upset Mummy?"

"Oh, _I_ upset her? I don't upset her, you do!"

"Me? How? I've been a model son!"

"Yeah, if that's what you can call it. You trail around her like a lost dog. She's worried about _you, _Mycroft."

"Stop what you're doing and turn around." A new voice interrupted their row.

The brothers stopped fighting for just a moment to turn around. Two men stood behind them, one holding a gun, the other a crow bar.

"Listen, we don't have a large sum of money on us—" Mycroft began.

"Shut up," the man with the crow bar barked.

"Hand over your wallet," the other man ordered.

Mycroft grew white. "No,"

"What?"

"I said no. you may not have my wallet."

"Mycroft, what are you doing?"

"I said shut up!" cried the thug.

"I have my reasons, Sherlock."

"But you only have ten pounds in there."

"I guess these two doesn't know the meanin' of shut and up," the man with the gun said. His accomplice snickered.

"It's 'don't'," Sherlock politely corrected.

"What?"

"It's 'don't', not 'doesn't'. Good lord, does the word grammar mean anything to you at all?"

"This one thinks he's smart, don't he?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Actually, I know I'm quite brilliant, but thank you. It makes one jealous, _doesn't_ it?" A shot went off and Sherlock found himself on the ground, clutching his right arm. "You bastard! Unlike you, I have actual uses for my arm," he growled.

"Alright, you can see what we did to your friend. Now hand over the wallet, and we'll let you go."

"No," Mycroft repeated.

"Stupid man."

A shot rang, and Mycroft joined his brother on the ground.

"You think you're so powerful," Sherlock snapped, "but if you are, how come I know that you care for your grandmother? That you have Carpel Tunnel? You live at the train station."

Now it was time for the man holding the gun to go white. "H—how did you know?"

"Don't listen to him," his partner snapped. "He's just guessing."

Sherlock grinned. "I never guess."

"Let's just grab the money and go,"

They snatched Mycroft's wallet from his unconscious body and took ten pounds, the only money in there.

"I wonder why he didn't want to give it to us," one criminal wondered to the other as they left the scene.

"Some men are cheap."

They shrugged and forgot about the existence of the Holmes brothers, though one was often haunted by Sherlock's deductions.

—

It was Christmas day, but Rosa was stuck working a dreaded night shift in a quiet hospital. She was filing her nails when the door opened. A young, dark haired man struggled in, carrying a much larger man around his shoulders.

"I need a doctor to see to my brother."

Two doctors and four nurses later, the injuries totaled to one shot arm, one broken leg, and a half a dozen bruises. The hospital insisted that the brothers stay the night since driving was out of the option. It was the most exciting thing to happen to the place on Christmas. To this day, nurses still speak of the handsome hero with the shot arm who dragged his brother— also notably attractive— across town to the nearest hospital.

—

Mycroft awoke to the quiet Christmas music coming from a radio at the nurse's station at the end of the hallway. He viewed the surrounding room. A hospital. He was in a hospital bed. Wearing a gown. There was a cast on his leg. He turned to see who was beside him. Sherlock, with a cast on his arm, sleeping as peacefully as an angel.

He vaguely remembered details from the night before. They were mugged, though not much was taken. He fell unconscious… then he must have ended up in a hospital, by the looks of it. He remembered his wallet when he saw the faded leather on his night table. He hurried to grab it even though it hurt his leg to stretch like that.

Flipping the wallet open, he sighed with relief and thumbed the thing he had tried so hard to save from the muggers. A picture of two little boys smiled back at him: three year old Sherlock, hugging a ten year old Mycroft, before Sherlock became cynical and hostile towards his brother. It was Mycroft's most cherished possession.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and story from BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**

* * *

><p>Mycroft had not anticipated a phone call from South London Hospital to be his annual Christmas summoning call. He did not expect to politely excuse himself from his meeting, grab his umbrella, and run to his awaiting car.<p>

When he arrived at the hospital, he did not want his knees to crumble at the sight of his unconscious brother, but he did all of these things.

Sherlock did not want to awakened, and then promptly punched and called an idiot by his brother.

"An overdose on cocaine?" Mycroft shouted. Sherlock remained still, his eyes were vacant. "I thought you wanted to do something with your life, Sherlock. Drugs are not— I can't even talk to you."

"Then don't."

"Why the hell would you even consider doing drugs?"

"Bored."

"What?"

"Bored!"

"That's stupid, Sherlock, really stupid." It was the first time Mycroft had ever called Sherlock stupid.

"I am doing something with my life. What am I supposed to do when my brain isn't working?"

"Do you know how much you've upset Mummy?"

"Don't be such a mummy's boy, Mycroft. Don't use that card on me, it won't work."

"Caring for your family is not a card, Sherlock. This isn't some game. This is your life."

"This game is boring."

"Don't be so ignorant. If you ruin your life, it also affects everyone else. Do try to remember that you're not the centre of the universe."

Sherlock did not reply with his usual clever comeback.

"Sherlock," Mycroft began.

"Leave."

"What?"

"Leave! I don't want you here anymore."

"My god, Sherlock, you're not a child. You're twenty-five! You cannot simply dismiss me."

"But I'm doing it right now. Leave, Mycroft, I'm tired of hearing your whining voice."

"Sherlock, I'm not whining."

"Yes, you are. You're doing it right now."

"Please learn the difference between whining and caring. I'm caring, Sherlock, I care about you. You're my younger brother. I want to look after you. Is that a shock to you?"

"I'm in a hospital, Mycroft. You're not doing a very good job, are you?"

"You put yourself in here."

"Why do you care? I don't owe you anything."

"It's not a matter of debt. For someone so smart, you can be extremely thick."

"You're trying to replace father."

"I'm not trying to replace anyone. And certainly not father. I can see that you're lost, Sherlock, even though you try to hide it. I'm trying to guide you."

"I don't need your help."

"But you do," Mycroft said as he left the room. Leaving detailed instructions to make sure Sherlock didn't get into anymore trouble, Mycroft left the hospital for the evening, making a mental note to not tell their mother of the events that had transpired. He didn't want to worry her.

Sherlock stared out his window to see Mycroft dashing out to his car in the parking lot. It was snowing light flakes, and Mycroft had nothing to put over his head to shield from the snowflakes.

He sighed and stared at the various fruit and muffin baskets from his admirers whose cases he helped solve. Sherlock then realized that none had been opened, or even looked at by Mycroft. Mycroft with no appetite meant something serious.

A feeling poking at his gut told Sherlock that he was either having regular bowel movements again, or it was guilt. He grudgingly decided it was latter, but he was too proud to apologize in person.

—

Knocking interrupted Mycroft's breakfast on Christmas morning. A delivery man handed him a package and a muffin basket.

A note sat atop the basket:

_Mycroft,_

_I had too many of these. Even though your waistline argues with me, I thought you'd like one. _

_-SH_

After tearing open the wrapped package, an umbrella rolled out. It was big, sturdy, and black.

Mycroft smiled. It was Sherlock's way of apologizing.

* * *

><p>Meretricious, and a happy new year!<p> 


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and story from BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**

* * *

><p>"I'm sick," whined a nasal voice from deep within a layer of blankets and duvets piled high on the bed.<p>

"I can see that, Sherlock," a man said from the foot of the bed.

"And you're choosing not to do anything about it, I see," Sherlock moaned.

"I'm finding this quite amusing, actually," answered the man.

"Here's something else you'll find interesting, Mycroft," Sherlock said as he coughed up some phlegm into a nearby tissue.

Mycroft wrinkled his nose in disgust. "It's a common cold, Sherlock. There's nothing I can do about it. Drink plenty of fluids, stay in bed."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, then winced in pain since it added to his headache. "No, I'm going to stop drinking water, and run a marathon. You're more useless than the lot at the hospital."

"No need to get hostile. I did come to visit, didn't I?"

"I didn't ask you to come."

"Don't I even get a 'Merry Christmas'?"

"Merry fu—" Sherlock sneezed mid-sentence.

"So, I take it that you picked up this ailment on a case of yours,"

"I had to jump into a lake to catch an escaping criminal. It's not my fault that it happened to be winter."

"Isn't that the policeman's job?"

"And let that useless lump have all the fun?" Sherlock sneezed again, and coughed up more phlegm. "While you're here, you might as well get me some soup."

"You still haven't grown out of your childish habits, I see."

"Soup."

"I think that was a yes."

"Well, unless you're planning to have me convert to cannibalism and eat _you_, I suggest you go fetch me some soup."

"It's nearly midnight. There's no place open, and I'm not willing to run around London finding a place that is."

"Then make me some soup," Sherlock stated flatly. He sneezed again.

"You've got to be kidding me."

Sherlock looked up at his brother with big watery eyes. "Please."

"You're awful," Mycroft said as he fled to the kitchen.

—

The first problem occurred when Mycroft couldn't find any ingredients. He peered around the cupboards and drawers. The cupboards were barren other than the occasional cobweb and dust bunny. The drawers were filled with nonsensical items. Where the forks were supposed to be, there were pairs of male underwear. In other drawers, there were jars of mysterious liquids, and even a single boot shoved precariously in. The fridge was no better. It was filled from bottom cabinet to butter storage with medical waste from St. Bart's Hospital.

Mycroft ended up with some meat that he thought was safe enough to pass off as chicken, water boiling in a kettle with a mysterious stain on the bottom, some stale noodles he miraculously found in a vase in the living room, and a lone carrot he found sitting on the counter.

The second problem occurred when Mycroft realized that he had never made soup in his life. Chicken noodle seemed simple enough. He had stumbled through meetings with politicians without agendas; he could manage one measly bowl of soup. It was traditional. Sherlock would be thanking him profusely.

Speaking of Sherlock, he was still miserable in the depths of his dark room. Coughing up a storm, and wiping snot from his red nose every few minutes. He shouted a few times for Mycroft to hurry up, but his cries were drowned out by his multiple pillows.

It took a half an hour for Mycroft to make a single bowl of soup.

—

"It took you long enough," Sherlock said when he saw Mycroft enter with a steaming bowl.

"Excuse me, but I think I should thanked. Have you seen the state of your kitchen?"

"I tried going to the hospital," Sherlock whined as he sat up, "but they wouldn't give me any medicine." Sherlock eagerly reached for the hot bowl, burning his fingers on the sides.

"Be careful," Mycroft scolded. "It's obviously not cold."

"Thank you for your incredible observation. Tell me some other obvious fact." Sherlock took a hesitant sip of his soup. "This is good," he said finally.

"Really?" Mycroft brightened up.

"Really. Try some." Sherlock offered the bowl to his brother.

Without hesitation, Mycroft took a big gulp. His eyes bulged and he ran to spit it out in the sink.

"You lied! This tastes awful!"

"You don't like your own cooking, Mycroft?" Sherlock said with a smarmy smirk.

"What the hell kind of meat was that?" Mycroft wiped his mouth.

"Meat?" Sherlock said with surprise, "I don't have any edible meat in my fla— oh, you cooked one of my experiments."

That caused Mycroft to gag even further.

"It's a shame," Sherlock said, setting the bowl of soup down on his night table. "That experiment was really coming along. Two weeks."

"That's disgusting, Sherlock!"

"Will you get me some real soup now?"

Mycroft looked incredulous. "You're still hungry?"

"You probably noticed that there was no food in my flat."

Mycroft grumbled as he slipped on his coat.

"Don't be scared to get me some juice either. Or those little cinnamon rolls they sell at that one place," Sherlock called.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock," Mycroft called back as he slammed the door shut.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and story from BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**

* * *

><p>"I don't see what the problem is," was John's answer when Sherlock rejected Mycroft's invitations to Christmas dinner for the third time.<p>

"Do not form an opinion on matters you know nothing of, John," Sherlock answered wearily.

But John considered himself very well informed on the matter. Although he had met Mycroft few times, he understood that Mycroft assumed the 'big brother' role quite well. He was protective, and concerned— sometimes overly— in his younger brother's matters.

The first invitation was sent via mail in an overly elaborate envelope, government seal and all.

The second invitation was virtually sent. It included an attachment of image of three-year-old Sherlock with his tongue fused to a frozen pole that Mycroft threatened to forward to the entire Scotland Yard if Sherlock refused to dine with him and Mummy.

The third invitation was the most creative at all. A knock on the door early in the morning distracted John from his boiling tea. At first glance, no one was there until a tiny bark stopped the door from closing. Some scuffling noises later, a puppy was inside the flat. It barked excitedly, and curiously sniffed at the furniture— taking special attention in one of Sherlock's rotting experiments sitting on the coffee table.

John knelt down to untie an envelope tied to the puppy's furry neck before letting it go to sniff at Sherlock's pale feet. It was an invitation from Mycroft, this time specifically targeted at John. It requested the audience of Doctor Watson with the Holmes family on the 24th of December for dinner.

"No," Sherlock stated firmly.

"But, Sherlock—"

"No."

John sighed and resigned himself to scratching the puppy's head. It barked happily, and attempted to turn its head to lick John's fingers.

"Though, I must admit, the puppy was a nice touch on Mycroft's part," Sherlock grumbled.

As if the puppy could understand, it barked in reply and scrambled up to Sherlock, where it proceeded to lick his toes.

"I think he likes you," John said.

Sherlock snarled, but he didn't move his feet away.

"Alright," Sherlock finally said.

"What?"

"Alright, we can go,"

John smiled. "Really?"

"Don't make me say it again, John."

—

"So, what is your mother like, exactly?" John asked on the car ride, compliments of Mycroft, to the Holmes' estate.

"There's not much to say. She conceived, carried me for nine months, and hired a nanny," Sherlock replied drily, eyes glued on to his phone.

"I think you're just ashamed to admit that you actually know nothing about your mother."

"John, don't confuse my contempt for oblivion. I know certain things about my mother, but I don't follow her around like Mycroft does."

John licked his lips. "Maybe that's why she wants to see you at Christmas. It's obvious that Mycroft spends more time with his treadmill than you do with your own mum."

Sherlock's gaze flicked up from his phone. He cracked a smile. It was uncommon for John to crack jokes about Mycroft's inconsistent exercise habits. "You must know that she wasn't simply _asking_ me to go home— she's summoning me." Sherlock said.

John chuckled, "The way you talk about her, it's as if—"

"As if?"

"It's as if she's some higher power," John explained. "Tell me, Sherlock, are you scared of your mother?"

"I have no idea what you mean by that," Sherlock said, turning back to his phone.

"You have the choice of either going, or not going. You obviously don't want to go, and yet, here we are."

"Excellent observation, John. Tell me, did you suspect this before, or after Mycroft sent us this absolutely inconspicuous car of his, with a virtually dumb driver at the front?"

John glanced at the driver. "Sorry," he said to him. The driver seemed not to hear, and continued to drive in his own content.

"From what I've seen with the way you deal with Lestrade, or Donovan— or even Anderson— you seem to love defying people. What makes your mother different from any of them?" John continued.

Sherlock sighed. "You'll see."

—

The car stopped at a snowbank in front of a vast lawn. As soon as the squeak of the brakes were audible, a figure stepped out in front of the headlights.

"I'm so glad you could make it," Mycroft said, when John opened the car door.

John nodded his hello in Mycroft's general direction before finally glancing at him. He could not help, but gape. Instead of the politician's usual three-piece suit, Mycroft was wearing a bright red jumper adorned with Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer. He noticed John's surprise immediately. "A little festive cheer, compliments of my former nanny," Mycroft explained. John nodded, but his eyebrows remained furrowed. "And where is my apprehensive younger brother?"

"No need for your welcoming speech, Mycroft," Sherlock said as he exited the car.

"Ah, but Doctor Watson is certainly willing. After all, this is his first Christmas with the us." Mycroft paused. "Tell me, brother, how are you going to introduce him to Mummy?"

John was currently fighting the driver over who would unload the luggage from the trunk of the car. He pretended not to hear the conversation in hopes of avoiding another classic Holmes brother quarrel.

"_Friend, best friend_," Mycroft listed, "but certainly not _colleague_. No, I should think that your little adventures together have secured a closer bond than that."

"Really, Mycroft, should you be worrying over such petty matters as this when you should be finding yourself another diet to fail?

"How about… _lover._" Mycroft concluded before chuckled. "Oh, Mummy will love that."

John turned a violent shade of red as he pretended to be interested in tugging his suitcase out of the trunk.

Sherlock looked momentarily disoriented before snapping, "_flatmate_!"

A look of doubt crossed Mycroft's face before a smirk eclipsed it. "Whatever you say, Sherlock. Come, Mummy is dying to see this _flatmate_ of yours."

—

The house was so large that even John couldn't help, but stare at the marble furnishings, and grand chandeliers. Sherlock breezed by his former home unimpressed.

"I see the puppy worked," Mycroft noted on their way to the sitting room where Mummy awaited.

Sherlock grunted.

"Yes, it was very lovely," John said graciously. "We named him Gladstone."

"Ah, a proper name. I expect he's being taken care of for the time you're away?"

"We managed to bargain with Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock would clean his kitchen before we left, and Mrs. Hudson would look after Gladstone. To be honest, I think it was a very one-sided deal. I'm quite sure she has a soft spot for dogs. And she was so relieved that Sherlock was leaving the flat long enough for her to do a good proper cleaning of it. Mind you, I think she thought Sherlock and I were leaving for a couples' retreat—" John stopped when he realized that Sherlock was glaring at him, and Mycroft was grinning broadly.

"I'm glad," was all Mycroft replied.

"You should be glad that your trainer doesn't see you during the holidays— when you show no restraint towards sweets," Sherlock grumbled.

The insult was very weak, and it was obvious to the trio.

"I've lost five pounds since the last time you saw me, Sherlock," Mycroft said with an upturned nose.

A moment of silence later, they arrived before the grand sitting room. A fire blazed in the stone fireplace. The light illuminated a scintillating Christmas tree at the opposite side of the room. A gaunt, noble-looking woman sat on a white sofa. She had her grey hair swept up in a tight bun, and a set of immaculate pearls hung from her ears.

"Sherlock," she smiled, and reached up to hug her son.

Sherlock made no move to hug her back. "Mother," he said politely as he seated himself in the chair farthest away from her.

His mother frowned, and she turned her attention towards John. "You must be Doctor Watson," she said curtly. "I've heard so much about you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Holmes. It's a pleasure to finally meet you. Mycroft's told me about how brilliant the Christmas dinners are with you." John smiled.

Mycroft, who was seated beside his mother, did the same.

"Tell me, Doctor Watson—" she began.

"Please, call me John."

"_John_, I don't like to be interrupted."

"I'm very sorry, please continue," John said, slightly embarrassed.

"You served in the army for a few years, correct?"

"Yes."

"And how long have you been living with my son?"

"A couple of months, I suppose."

"Is he suitable flatmate for a former army doctor?" Mrs. Holmes' eyes narrowed.

John laughed nervously. "Well, I suppose if you like having body parts in your fridge, and experiments spilling into your tea— yeah, he is rather suitable."

Mummy whipped her gaze to her bored-looking son. "I thought you quit doing your experiments in grade school."

"They're for work, Mother. No longer the juvenile playthings for my own amusement— it is my job."

Mrs. Holmes smiled tightly. "Do you still make raucous noises with your violin at ungodly hours of the night?"

"No—"

"Actually, Mrs. Holmes, Sherlock sometimes plays wonderful music. It's very calming." John said quickly.

Mrs. Holmes ignored John and continued observing her son. "Is that a sock hanging out of your pocket?"

Sherlock looked down, and there indeed, was one of John's striped socks just slightly peeking out of his jacket pocket.

"Right, yes, it's mine." John explained. "When I do the laundry, I usually forget to put in the dryer sheets, so everything sticks together. Sorry about that, Sherlock."

Sherlock waved his hands at the matter.

Mrs. Holmes sniffed. "How domestic."

—

By the time dinner was ready, John was back to his primary school self. Mrs. Holmes shot questions at him with canon speed that could only be compared to his least favourite Maths teacher in his fifth year. His woolen jumper felt itchy and hot under her scrutiny. He felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

Sherlock looked cool and uncaring, as usual. John wondered how his flatmate could stand living with such a proper woman for so many years. Even the thought of using the wrong fork during main course made John nervous.

"Sherlock, how is the London society these days?" Mrs. Holmes asked during the soup course.

"Mother, why do you bother asking questions you know full well I do not know the answers of?"

"I was hoping perhaps that your flatmate would become a good influence on your social life."

"We have many friends," Sherlock answered firmly.

Mrs. Holmes raised her eyebrows. "Oh, and you did not invite them here for Christmas dinner?"

"No, I should think a good many of them are content with spending Christmas in the morgue at St. Bart's."

"Your love affair with death and all things morbid still seems to be ever present."

"Actually, Mrs. Holmes— if I may interrupt— Sherlock is improving. He's gotten rid of his old skull. Gained loads of acquaintances too. Last week, I managed to talk him into a double date with me and Sarah."

That caught Mrs. Holmes' attention. "A woman?"

"Yes," John said enthusiastically, glad to have finally said the right thing, "We all went to a Christmas party at St. Bart's. The woman, Molly Hooper, invited all of us. She works at the morgue there."

"Is my son in a relationship with Miss Hooper?"

John laughed nervously, avoiding Sherlock's sharp gaze. "She was very forgiving when Sherlock spilled punch on her dress to see what would happen to the material. In retrospect, maybe I should have gone after her when she started crying."

"Has my son engaged in any other relationships since you became his flatmate?"

"I think I may be able to answer that, Mother," Sherlock spoke. "My work doesn't allow much time for social interaction. So, no, but I'm quite satisfied in my friendship with John."

"I do hope Doctor Watson isn't crippling your chances of my receiving grandchildren."

"Why might that be?"

"One might think you two may be…" Mrs. Holmes trailed off.

At the realization of what she was suggesting, John turned pink. "No, no! I assure you, we're definitely platonic. To be fair, I have set up accounts for Sherlock on multiple dating sites."

"Any success?" Mycroft spoke for the first time since they seated at the dinner table. "I cannot imagine who might be a suitable mate for broody Sherlock."

"Well, since I posted a picture, he's certainly gained an abundance of attention. The only trouble is getting him to actually show up for dates."

"Doctor Watson, you seem to have quite the interest in my son's romantic life. Tell me, should I be worried of an unhealthy obsession forming, or should I let you play the mother's meddling role since you seem to play it so well already." Mrs. Holmes' cold gaze settled on John.

"Mother, I would appreciate you not to intimidate my friend with your possessiveness of me. You do know, of course, that it's mainly the reason why I only see you one week out of three hundred sixty-five days of the year?"

"Sherlock, that's incredibly rude," John said, appalled by his flatmate's behavior, ending the topic of discussion.

The table remained quiet for the entire appetizer and main course until Sherlock finally left the table before dessert was served. John sat quietly while Mycroft and Mrs. Holmes discussed the current state of the economy.

—

After dinner, Mycroft found his younger brother standing at the balcony, affixing two nicotine patches to his pale arm.

"That went rather well," Mycroft said casually.

"If you're referring to dinner, your description may be comparable to calling hurricane _placid_."

Mycroft laughed. "You're mistaken, Sherlock."

"Oh, maybe I am. Perhaps Mother was trying to give John a hug with her teeth instead of tearing apart his self-esteem."

"She likes him," Mycroft said. "She rather thinks that he's a good influence on you."

Sherlock went quiet.

"I know it's hard to tell with her, but she's been worried about you for a long time."

"There's nothing to be worried about. I'm a grown man, but she still treats me like a boy."

"What choice does she have, but to treat you that way if you refuse to be tried as an adult?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You sulk, Sherlock. You're sulking right now because you think Mummy doesn't approve of your new friend."

"I don't need her approval."

"Even if you don't, you must believe me when I say that she truly likes him."

"How do you expect me to believe your word?"

"You're Sherlock Holmes. You don't choose just anyone to be your friend." Silence as snow gracefully coated the balcony in sparkling white. "Perhaps more than a friend," Mycroft said as he turned to leave his brother in peace.

—

After another hour of deep reflection, Sherlock went to his former bedroom to sleep.

As soon as he opened the door, he knew that someone had tampered with his things. On his bare bed was stacks upon stacks of boxes labelled with various words: _Christmas Ornaments_, _Photo Albums_, _Drinks Glasses _

Opening his closet for blankets, he found it empty except for a few coat hangers.

Annoyed, he went to the sitting room to sleep on the sofa, but found it occupied by Mummy's white cat, Calypso, who hissed as soon as he approached. Not wanting to start a row with an obese— but vicious— cat, he left in search of another place to sleep.

The other spare bedrooms were stripped bare of their sheets and blankets. When Sherlock opened up the supply closets in search of the missing necessities, he found the entire house lacking.

Finally cracking, he entered Mycroft's room without knocking. His older brother was already asleep on his vast bed.

"Move over," Sherlock ordered as he climbed in.

Half-conscious Mycroft snorted, "Wha—"

"I don't have a bed. Now make room," Sherlock shoved his way into the bed.

"Ah, oh, okay," Mycroft muttered as he went back to sleep.

Not more than ten minutes later, Mycroft was snoring loudly. Sherlock gritted his teeth, wishing that he had opted for the floor than sharing a bed with his loud brother. He snapped his eyes closed and prayed for sleep. His praying was interrupted when Mycroft swung his arm around Sherlock's chest; a leg followed.

Sherlock shoved his brother off of himself, and immediately left. He had had enough.

Once in the hallway, Sherlock considered his options, and realized that the only option left was to share a bed with John.

—

John was rolling around restlessly when he heard his door opening. A dark figure loomed over his bed. He immediately recognized the flop of curls.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"I need a place to sleep." Sherlock answered.

"Oh."

"I'll sleep on the floor if you'll let me have one of your blankets."

"It's fine."

"What?"

"I, er, need all of my blankets. The room's really cold. So, er, we could share the bed."

Sherlock noted the chill in the air and nodded. He walked to the right side of the bed and climbed in. Both men were quiet after the momentary rustling of the blankets as Sherlock made himself comfortable.

John finally found his eyelids growing heavy as Sherlock's added heat warmed the bed.

"John."

"Yeah," John mumbled sleepily.

"Mother likes you."

—

The next morning, the gift exchange happened immediately after breakfast. To be honest, Sherlock felt like a giddy ten year old, even though he didn't show it. He loved gifts. Even if they were from Mycroft and Mummy.

John, however, was not so sure how to react to his gifts. He wasn't sure what Mrs. Holmes had given him, but he imagined that it would be unpleasant.

After Mycroft had opened up his gifts— a new briefcase, and a gold paperweight in the shape of cake (sarcastically gifted from Sherlock), he excused himself to his room, saying that he had forgotten a gift.

Mummy soon followed, explaining that she would make tea for the occasion. That left Sherlock and John to open their presents.

Sherlock received silver cufflinks from his brother, a matching wristwatch from his mother, and from John, a new pair of leather gloves.

John looked around the the tree for his presents, but could only find one with his name: a new coat from Sherlock which probably had a value over twice his last pay cheque.

"There's one more present left," Sherlock announced, frowning at a tiny package under the large tree.

"It's not mine," John said.

Sherlock took the package and examined it. There was indeed no label.

"Open it," John urged.

Sherlock wasted no time in ripping open the paper, but soon became disappointed. "It's just a plant."

John laughed. "Are you serious, Sherlock?"

Sherlock frowned. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"That's _mistletoe_, Sherlock."

"Mistletoe… the thing you're supposed to stand under to kiss."

"Yes."

"Why would anyone wrap such a thing?"

Sherlock did not protest when John grabbed the mistletoe out of his hand.

"It's preposterous—"

"Shut up, Sherlock," John said as he lifted the mistletoe above their heads and leaned in to kiss his flatmate.

Sherlock didn't argue.

—

From the attached dining room, Mummy and Mycroft received a good view of the events happening in the sitting room.

Mummy smiled, as Mycroft grinned broadly.

"I wonder if they know that we've given them our present already."

—

Much later, while Mycroft was trying to catch up on some last minute work in the kitchen, Sherlock entered, and much to Mycroft's surprise, took a seat across from him.

"You planned all of this," he hissed. Sherlock had spent most of the day in a state of confused bliss, doing everything his mother told him to do and exchanging secret smiles with John over supper. However, now that night had fallen, Sherlock's usual personality seemed to reappear.

"No need to thank me," replied Mycroft as he put down the document he was reading. "It was entirely Mummy's idea."

"There was no need for your interference!" Sherlock snarled. He stopped, realizing his increasing volume. Not wanting to attract attention from the rest of the household, he lowered his voice again. "We were content without you sticking your nose in my business."

"Sherlock, you don't have to be alarmed. Everyone knows you're attracted to Doctor Watson. We were just tired of having to watch you pine for him."

"I don't _pine_, Mycroft. We are flatmates." Sherlock vehemently defended. "He didn't want me. We were..." he trailed off. "...friends." He slumped back in his seat, his eyes narrowed in defiance.

Mycroft suddenly realized what it really was that his brother was upset about. Sherlock was afraid John was going to change his mind; he was afraid he was going to lose him. Mycroft took off his reading glasses as he pondered this. "Doctor Watson has been attracted to you for a very long time, Sherlock. He's just afraid as you, but I'm sure he isn't going to wake up tomorrow with a different opinion of you. Besides," he chucked, "he's voluntarily put up with you longer than anyone else has. I'm sure that's sign of devotion." After a pause, he added, "or his mental instability."

"But, Sarah," Sherlock spat, unable to finish the sentence.

"Nothing serious. He's done nothing more than kiss her on the cheek."

There was no hiding from Mycroft; Sherlock sighed. "You're insufferable," he said without much heat.

Mycroft smiled. "I could say the for you."

Sherlock had turned to look at the window; he couldn't see anything in the dark, but the light from the kitchen had turned the glass into a mirror, reflecting the brothers sitting at the table. They both looked exhausted, though, Mycroft suddenly looked much older to Sherlock than he remembered. "Do you remember that time I put Mother's lipstick on you while you were sleeping?"

"And her eye shadow. And her blush too, if I remember correctly."

"Your face was brighter than a baboon's rear end. I still have the pictures," Sherlock said with malicious glee. He turned to look at Mycroft. "If you meddle in either John's or my affairs again, I will personally see to it that every influential person you have worked with and ever will work with will see these pictures." Making sure his threat was understood, Sherlock stood up from the table to exit the kitchen.

"Blackmail is a two-way street, Brother. I have more information that would ruin you than you have of me."

Sherlock turned back, a devious smirk on his face. "Indeed. Oh, and before I forget, I sent Anthea a little Christmas gift from you. No need to be alarmed," he said at the look of horror on Mycroft's face. "Everyone knows you're attracted to her."

"Sherlock! She's my assistant. That's not professional."

"I know, but we were just so tired of having to watch you _pine_ for her. Expect a phone call from her in the morning, and try not to bugger it up. Good night, dear Brother."

"Sherlock!"

—

Upstairs, Mrs. Holmes smiled to herself when she heard Sherlock walk past her room. Earlier, she'd "accidentally" overheard Sherlock making arrangements over the phone to have some suggestive negligee delivered to Anthea from Mycroft. It was about time someone did something about her eldest son and that assistant of his; they'd been dancing circles around each other for years. Mrs. Holmes wasn't getting any younger, and she was tired of watching her sons make messes out of their personal lives. But, it all worked out in the end.

Mycroft helped Sherlock and John. Sherlock helped Mycroft and Anthea. The brothers both got each other exactly what they wanted this Christmas.

* * *

><p>The end!<p>

Happy New Years to all! Thank you to each and everyone of those who left behind reviews and amazing comments. I appreciate every single one of them!


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